by Jill Morrow
“She isn’t in this room,” Kat whispered.
“Not in this room?” Stephen held her close.
Kat shook her head. “I don’t know where she is. I can understand a spirit leaving a dying body, but Aunt Frannie isn’t dying.”
He swallowed hard. “I wish we knew that for sure.”
She jerked away from him. “Show me some evidence that she is! Nobody here seems able to do that. Her body is working exactly as it should.”
“She won’t wake up,” Stephen reminded gently.
Kat stared at the floor. “I know,” she said in a low voice. “But I also know my aunt. She isn’t in that body, and bringing her back has nothing to do with medical science.”
He instinctively recoiled from her words, but she would not stop.
“You know what I’m saying, Stephen,” she insisted.
A grimace flashed across his face. She could almost see his mind struggle to tear away the veil of his own disbelief. She, too, longed to keep that veil intact, hung as it had hung for years as a buffer between the steady rhythm of their shared life and the harsh surreality they’d glimpsed so many years ago.
Finally, his eyes met hers. His voice sounded hollow. “You think this has something to do with Asteroth.”
“I can’t rule it out.” The words seemed bleak, yet a curious release fluttered deep in her heart as she set them free. Some dark, festering secret had been exposed to the light.
Footsteps clattered down the hall. Claire tumbled into the room, followed by Julia and Angel Café’s assistant manager, Laura.
“Mommy!” Claire catapulted into her mother’s midsection.
“Thanks for bringing them, Laura.” Stephen pulled a wan smile.
“No problem.” Laura shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Don’t worry about the restaurant, Mr. Carmichael. We can handle it. We’ll page you if there’s a problem.”
Stephen opened his mouth to say that he’d be back as soon as he could. Then he caught sight of Julia’s face. Her lower lip trembled as she stared from her mother to Francesca. Her eyes were such a uniform green that they appeared almost opaque.
“Thank you,” Stephen said instead as Laura left the room.
Claire walked toward the bed. “Aunt Frannie’s in the middle of a good dream,” she said, reaching out to pat Francesca’s hand.
Kat and Stephen exchanged glances.
“That’s a nice thought, sweetie,” Kat managed to say.
“Well, it’s true.” Claire cocked her head. “She’s smiling. See?”
“Knock it off, Claire.” Julia’s brows lowered.
Stephen wrapped an arm around his older daughter’s shoulders. “Aunt Frannie isn’t in any pain, Julia. I like Claire’s idea that she might be seeing something special.”
Claire nodded, mouth curved upward in a grin. She seemed quite at ease, not at all rattled by the unsettling scene unfolding around her.
Kat drew in a deep breath. “Ladies, we’re taking Aunt Frannie home with us.”
“Like this?” Julia’s jaw dropped.
Kat squared her shoulders. “Like this.”
“It won’t be hard, Julie.” Claire bent to pull up her drooping knee sock. “She’s just sleeping. We can take turns watching her. We’ll say prayers to keep her safe, of course.”
Kat and Stephen stared at their younger daughter.
“Um…of course,” Stephen said, for Claire had somehow delivered the very tone he and Kat had hoped to find.
Julia turned toward the window. Her heart thumped so loudly in her chest that she wondered why doctors did not swarm into the room to hook her up to a heart monitor.
This couldn’t be happening. Aunt Frannie was always the very picture of health and energy, ready to tackle every new challenge that crossed her path. Somehow, it had never dawned on Julia that even the resilient could die. She felt foolish. Everyone died. Why hadn’t she recognized this possibility before?
But Aunt Frannie couldn’t leave her now…not when so many strange things were happening…
A scowl crossed Julia’s face as she tried not to cry. She should have told Aunt Frannie about the bells and the weird people a long time ago. She suddenly knew that her great-aunt would have understood.
As if on cue, the errant bells rang through her brain again, louder than ever, clanging at a frequency that bordered on shrill. She tried to ignore them.
It was different this time. The blond people did not appear before her as they usually did. Today she felt their presence on either side of her. To her right stood the girl, hair the color of moonbeams. Julia felt the tickle of fingertips against her arm as the girl turned an odd, flat gaze in her direction. The man stood to her left. She caught a glimpse of shoulder-length blond hair as the strong aroma of musk assailed her nostrils.
The contours of the hospital room wavered. A breeze caressed her skin. Leaves rustled. The scent of wild thyme tickled her nose. She wondered how she even knew what that scent was.
In an instant, the room whirled about her. She lay in a forest clearing, pinned to the grass, the hardness of the warm earth pushing up against her shoulder blades. Intense heat scorched the front of her, pressing against her like an insistent inferno. Blinding sunlight streamed over the shoulder of the man on top of her.
The blond man. He was the one crushing her, squeezing all the breath from her lungs!
He raised his head and met her stare. She gasped at the empty darkness of his eyes, then tried to roll from beneath him. His mouth came down hard on hers.
With all her might, Julia wrenched her head away.
“No!” she shrieked. The word echoed through the forest, reverberated against the dull beige hospital walls.
Her parents flew to her side, vivid reminders that she did not belong in the world those other people inhabited.
“Everything’s okay, Julie,” her father said, cradling her in his arms.
Kat reached for her daughter’s hand. “I know it’s a shock, honey, but we’ll get through it. Aunt Frannie will have the best care we can give her.”
Aunt Frannie. Julia shot a wild gaze toward Francesca. How peaceful she looked, resting against the pillows. How safe!
But there was something more here, something that Julia couldn’t explain even if she tried.
She untangled herself from her parents’ arms and took a few cautious steps toward her great-aunt.
Thyme. The faint scent of thyme played on the air surrounding Francesca’s bed.
Julia blinked rapidly. Could nobody else in the room smell this?
Claire’s small hand took possession of her own. “Everything will be fine,” Claire said, green eyes round and solemn. “You know Aunt Frannie always does what’s best.”
Aunt Frannie.
Julia’s stomach churned. She longed for a confidante, even if that confidante was only eight years old. She opened her mouth to speak, but quickly shut it as a white-coated doctor, clip board in hand, strode into the room.
“Everything will be fine,” Claire repeated as her mother short-circuited the doctor’s protestations with a simple wave of her hand.
10
WHATEVER HER METAPHYSICAL STATE, F RANCESCA ’S SENSES and perceptions had intensified. She stood motionless, overwhelmed by the ageless familiarity of the priory chapel. The fragrance of melting beeswax candles tickled her nostrils. Scores of tiny candle flames danced before her, their tricolored light illuminating the dimness of the sanctuary. Their glow softened the edges of the wooden pews until the burnished wood offered a sincere invitation to sit. Delicate feathers of smoke curled upward toward leaded-glass windows. Francesca wondered what prayers they carried with them. She had learned in her travels that people the world over harbored similar fears and hopes. She could only assume that this applied to centuries as well as locations. What mother did not agonize over the well-being of her child? What spouse did not mourn the loss of a life partner? Did anyone who ever drew breath not long for prosperity, be it
through a bountiful harvest or a canny stock market investment? Francesca was certain that mankind shared fundamental prayers.
She raised her eyes to the stained-glass rose window high above the altar. She knew that its peaceful symmetry was meant to be an endless hymn of praise to the Virgin Mary. It was a mandala, a constant call to harmony in the midst of a jangled world. Light filtered through the pattern, splashing color across the stone floor. The juxtaposition of scarlet, blue, and gold nudged a memory. She studied it. Where else had she seen this pleasing pattern of color spilled across cold gray stone?
Forehead puckered in thought, Francesca drifted toward the front of the church. Her finger trailed across the gleaming back of a pew. The smooth wood caressed her fingertip with the softness of a rich velvet cape.
Much about this place felt familiar, but that did not surprise her. After all, she’d grown up in a tightly knit Italian community anchored by the Church. Indeed, she’d devoted a number of her adult years to the convent. Even now, she remained a churchaholic who dove into the atmosphere of old churches the way other people dove into books. Churches felt like homes away from home to her, places where she could always speak the language.
That was it, of course. It was not the church building itself that felt thoroughly familiar. It was the atmosphere. The texture of this place struck a chord.
She carefully lowered herself into a pew. This place felt like the modern-day Lincoln she’d visited last summer. She’d recognized that while still in the priory courtyard. There was more, though. The vibrations here resonated somewhere else as well. Where?
The thought pounded against her consciousness, striving for recognition.
Baltimore. The Cathedral of Mary Our Queen.
Her heart turned a somersault as her gaze darted back to the colorful pattern of light on the floor. It didn’t matter whether she now sat in the medieval priory or the modern-day cathedral. Both places enveloped her in the same manner, shared the same vibrations. Though each occupied a different patch of time and space, they apparently shared an energy frequency.
Could this explain how she’d closed her eyes in one century and opened them in another?
Francesca drew in a slow, deep breath, grasped the pew before her, and closed her eyes. Experience had taught her that most answers were available to anyone brave enough to listen.
A low hum rushed through her ears. She recognized it as a chord, a dense structure of individual notes layered one atop another. She tentatively studied them. They seemed constructed of constant movement, though they possessed no apparent beginning or end. She suspected that if one could escape the physical boundaries of the mind, these notes—bands of energy—could be ridden like waves straight into any location whose frequency they shared.
This, then, was the ticket back to her body, the way home to Baltimore.
Her eyes flew open. Regaining her body would be like incarceration in a full-body cast. How unfair to have to settle for the limitation of physical form after tasting the freedom of existence without it!
But she had little choice here. She couldn’t desert Kat, Stephen, and the children now.
She pushed away her misgivings, once again closed her eyes, and braced herself to slip into the next level of consciousness.
A glittering whirlpool of light sucked her through its vortex. Warm, fragrant air caressed her cheek. She felt herself lifted, then tumbled over and over until the light burned seamlessly and she couldn’t tell whether she floated upright or upside down.
She lost all sense of time. She certainly didn’t care; this delicious feeling could last forever, as far as she was concerned.
Then, with no warning, all movement stopped. Francesca went limp, as relaxed and sun-drenched as if she’d just washed up on the hot pink sands of a tropical beach. She knew that her fantastic journey was finished, that she’d landed back among the living in Baltimore.
With a small sigh of regret, she opened her eyes.
The cold stone wall of the medieval chapel met her surprised stare.
Her jaw dropped. What on earth could this mean? If she’d reached this era through an identical twenty-first-century frequency band, she should have been able to return through the same door. Why hadn’t it worked?
The creak of hinges jarred her from her reverie. Voices floated through the opening church door. From instinct rather than necessity, Francesca ducked behind the pew.
A tall woman clothed in emerald green glided into the chapel. Strands of bright red hair escaped from beneath her wimple and strayed across her furrowed brow. Francesca recognized the man who followed her as Gregory, the priest she’d seen earlier. His gaze never left his companion as he tugged the chapel door shut behind him.
“It cannot go on.” The woman’s low, husky voice was as musical as a voice could be without actually singing.
Gregory’s brows lowered as he crossed his arms against his chest. “You’re right, Alys. It cannot.”
“She must leave Saint Etheldreda’s at once.” Alys paced a few steps away, then turned in a swirl of skirts to face the priest.
“He must leave Saint Etheldreda’s at once!” Gregory drew himself up to his full height.
Safely hidden behind the pew, Francesca took stock of the situation. Gregory’s tonsure and coarse brown robe marked him as a man of the Church. Alys apparently resided at this convent—Saint Etheldreda’s, was it? She spoke as if she might even have some authority here. Yet this confrontation between priest and woman felt more like a lovers’ quarrel than anything else.
“Alys.” Gregory’s voice grew gentle. “Isobel is to be pitied. She is but a child, and a mute one at that. She has neither the wits nor the strength to protect herself from the influences of that vile boarder you’ve allowed into your midst.”
“She is not a child!” Alys snapped. “She wouldn’t even be here had my brother found a wealthy lord willing to wed her. Furthermore, I suspect she is possessed of both wits and strength in abundance. She goes her way as she sees fit, Gregory, and that will never do.”
He plowed forward with the unstoppable force of a boulder shoved loose from the top of a hill. “Still, Alys, it is Hugh who must go. You know this.”
Alys turned a straight back to him and strode away.
Francesca stifled a gasp. The Hugh they spoke about so freely was Asteroth.
She watched as Gregory stroked his chin with his hand. He studied Alys carefully, clearly pondering her mood and wondering what method would best douse the fire. Francesca had once read that the eyes were the windows to the soul. It had seemed a pretty sentiment at the time, but not a very realistic one. Gregory, though, proved the maxim. She could read his heart in his dark, brown eyes. Here was a man so deeply in love that he could never escape it.
He took a tentative step forward. “Alys.” A twisted expression flickered across his face. He quickly mastered it. He straightened, then extended a beseeching hand. “Alys. Your boarder is comely to look upon. He surely brings you a sweet taste of the world you left behind. Can it be that you feel…a tenderness…toward him?”
She did not turn, but answered in a low, steady voice. “How very little you must think of me, and of yourself as well. Hugh distorts the air he breathes, perverts the very ground he walks upon. See? He has even caused you to doubt my love for you, a love as constant and predictable as the cycle of the seasons.”
He fairly flew across the floor to gather her into his arms. Francesca obligingly averted her eyes as they kissed. She had been correct all along: people did share universal needs and yearnings, no matter what the trappings of their lives.
“He must not come between us,” Gregory said quietly. “We cannot allow it.”
“No.” Alys leaned her head against the rough fabric of his robe.
“We can only resolve this together, my dearest heart.”
“Then, Gregory, you must come to me as a man, not as a priest. You must be first my beloved, then the bishop’s envoy. Can you do this?” She
backed away from the circle of his arms and captured his gaze with her own. Francesca wondered how any man could escape the pull of those luminous gray eyes. Alys, more beautiful than ever in this moment of vulnerability, inspired an overwhelming desire to protect.
Gregory lifted her chin with a gentle hand. “I am yours, God help me.”
“Good. Hear me well, then, for our time together surely grows short. Isobel must leave.”
“But Hugh is the one who—”
She interrupted with a firm finger against his lips. “Yes, Gregory, Hugh must go as well. But Isobel is the reason he has come here. Can you not see this?”
“Why would he come for Isobel?”
Alys shivered. “I cannot say. It doesn’t even seem possible, yet I think it must be so. She knows him, Gregory. She knew him before she came to Saint Etheldreda’s.”
He hesitated. “Perhaps they forged an alliance before she came to you. Mayhap he followed her. Surely if he compels her to his side, we may be certain it is not her conversation he craves. But if you banish Hugh and shelter Isobel, such nonsense will surely end.”
Alys shook her head. “There is more to this, though I can’t say what. Please, Gregory. Isobel must quit this place. The thought of her chills me.”
Gregory cast a furtive glance toward the chapel door, then once again pulled Alys close. “You’re trembling.”
She melted into his arms. “I’m frightened,” she whispered, and the startled expression on Gregory’s face told Francesca that this proud woman had never before uttered those words aloud.
“You are not superstitious,” he chided.
“No. And this is why you must heed me. You know as well as I that no vocation brought me to Saint Etheldreda’s. I am here for my father’s convenience and can lay no claim to a blameless life. Still, I believe that the Creator in great kindness walks with me and cares for me. My very prayers are infused with worry these days, Gregory. Something is amiss. I feel it in every breath I take.”